Brain Farts
by WonderStarLord
Summary: A collection of excerpts from unfinished stories I'm fiddling with and, in all likelihood, won't finish.
1. Another Next Gen Fic

**Another Next Generation fic**

Notes: Dunno what the hell this barely edited POS is. A work in progress? A prompt, seeing as I don't have enough time to devote to finishing it? Seriously, if anyone wants to finish this, go ahead (same with everything else I've managed to cauterise enough to post). My sandbox is a whorehouse. It welcomes everyone.

* * *

"Ah, the smell of urban decay," said Lyre Gilmore Baizen fondly after she wound down the window of a generically hulking black SUV. Her brown hair, thick and knotty (and, by Grandma's standards, utterly unbearable), resisted being fanned out by the rush of whistling air on account of not being brushed after her last three showers. After months of religiously sweeping her hair up into a ballerina bun, day after day, _every_ day, she deserved this. She had earned the right to be Emily Gilmore's worst nightmare.

"Don't you just love it, Mom?"

"Yes, sweetheart. Air pollution. The precise reason why we're moving back here," spoke her mother, her voice flatter than Salar de Uyuni in Bolivia.

She and her mom were driving from Queens to the Upper East Side; from JFK to the apartment her parents kept at The Sutton. They'd just gotten off a flight from Roissy Airport even though her mom had spent the last fortnight in Kenya.

"It's a wonder we haven't overtaken Beijing on the smog scale," continued Rory. She scrunched her face, lightly freckled from the blazing African sun, showing her dislike for the gas guzzling monstrosity they were being driven in.

Lyre's mom was a journalist – a _great_ one – and travelled by air and sea almost as often as she did by land. She was practically a Navy SEAL. Except for, you know, the naval part. Lyre, herself, had spent her holidays at the 2037 Summer School, training with the Paris Opera Ballet School of Dance. Standing on pointe and stretching her neck and, pretty much, just dying in fast-forward for hours on end. Sadly, there wasn't any actual opera singing at the Paris Opera House on her part. Not officially. During breaks from dancing, or simply when she got bored, she'd belt out an opera aria or two. A rusty opera aria. She had sung with the Metropolitan Opera in New York City, but that was when she was a kid.

New York. No Gilmore Baizen visit to New York had lasted longer than a few weeks in _years_. She was – what – a snot-nosed third grader when her dad had relocated their family to Geneva, Switzerland? They travelled _a lot_. Lyre's dad was a UN ambassador (not one of those celebrity Goodwill Ambassadors, but a _real_ one). He had recently been confirmed as the new United States Ambassador to the United Nations and they were returning to New York for his swearing-in ceremony today. Or was it yesterday? Tomorrow …? Whatever. Stupid time zones …

There were two places that Lyre called home, even though she didn't really have a home. New York City was one of them. A leafy little hamlet in Connecticut was the other. The Lincoln Center was incredible and the Paris Opera House was unreal, but nothing held a candle to Miss Patty's. Nowhere could compare to Stars Hollow.

Stars Hollow had Grams and Grumps – _cough_ – sorry – Gramps, for starters. And Luke's coffee. A person couldn't just forget the coffee that Gramps made at his diner. New York had … Grandmother and Grandfather … and the Upper East Side …


	2. The Boy Toy

**The Boy Toy**

 _I felt bad for Paul all throughout A Year in the Life. In this AU, I hope he found someone else who has the counteractive superpower of remembering abysmally forgettable people._

Notes: Revival spoilers.

* * *

"Hey, did my boxes get here?" asked Rory.

"Behind the rack," said Lorelai.

"Great! So, you finally did it, huh? Finally gave up your boy toy's bachelor pad?"

"He is _not_ my 'boy toy'. And I did. He and Stavros Niarchos will just have to get along without me."

"Are you gonna miss it?"

"A little."

"I'm gonna miss it. It had room service and spas –"

"And instant access to the world's largest media library." Rory gazed into the distance, mistiness in her eyes. "I'm gonna miss that media library."

"– and that real-time surveillance playback that every mother wants for her little girl."

"You mean that little girl's mother wants for herself."

"Are you questioning my maternal priorities?"

"Since the little girl's mommy squatted in her daughter's living-room for the entire week that Bono was staying at the Empire."

"Bono, Rory! _Bono_."

"Yeah, yeah."

"It was a pretty _pretty_ place with a pretty, pretty guy. Why did you move out again?"

"That was only supposed to be temporary –"

"Yeah, because two years is the very definition of temporary."

"– and I just was never there. Do you know how many nights I actually spent there this year?"

"Three?"

"No."

"Eighteen?"

"No."

"Forty-six?"

"No."

"Is this like _The Price is Right_ , where if I'm a little under, I win; over, I lose?"

"I don't actually know exactly how many nights, OK? But it was not a lot, and now the hotel's undergoing renovations, and Nate's getting a condo, and I'm not ready to get a condo – we're not ready to get a condo. The two of us. Together. We haven't quite reached condo-coupledom just yet, so it seemed like the time to say –"

"Bye-bye, boyfriend?"

"No. Not 'bye-bye, boyfriend.' Just bye-bye bachelor pad."

"Ah-hah! You agree! He is your pretty, pretty boy toy."

"I said 'bachelor pad'. I said nothing about Nate being my boy toy."

"But you're the older woman!"

"Are not!"

"You met him when you were his TA at Columbia."

"Thanks for reminding me, Mom."

"You were graduating college when he was still in high school."

"It's not like I'm Sam Taylor and he's Aaron Johnson!"

"Madonna and Michael Douglas have this special club going on, in case you're interested."

"If I'm old, then so are you!"

"Old? I am not _old_."

"Sounded like 'old' to me."

"I simply called you _older_. Big difference – huge difference."

"Semantics."

"Apologies?"

"Only if you stop calling Nate my boy toy."

"I will."

"You will?"

"I promise."

"You promise?"

"The second it stops being funny."

"Funny."

"I know."

"Sarcasm."

"Ouch! You enjoy hurting Mama with that mouth?"

"Only when she deserves it."

"Double-ouch!"

"This box is open."

Lorelai mock gasped. "Damn that TSA!"

"Really? You went through my stuff?"

"I did. And I must say, I found it very disappointing."

"You found my personal items disappointing?"

"Yeah. I thought there'd be something fun in there, you know. Like a treasure map, or the prequel to _Huckleberry Finn_ where Huck is a Klan leader and terrified of water."

"I think it's kind of exciting, you know? No apartment, no rent, no ties. I could crash here, I could crash at Dan's, I could crash at Lane's. I feel like this is my time to be rootless and just see where life takes me, and travel wherever there's a story to write. I just wish I had remembered to label my boxes, because now I know where nothing is. My boots, my coats, my underwear …"

"You don't know where your underwear is?"

"Could be at Dan's. Or Lane's."

"You've been without your underwear since you moved?"

"Don't judge."

"I'm Gwen freakin' Stefani. Do you want to borrow some underwear?"

"I'd like to stop talking about underwear. I am looking for my lucky outfit."

"I think any outfit you wear without underwear is gonna be your lucky outfit. I'm sure your boy t―" Lorelai caught herself milliseconds before Rory glared. " _Nate_. I'm sure Nate would agree."

"I have this big meeting coming up with Condé Nast, and I have this one particular look that always makes me feel like Diane Sawyer."

"Is it a Mike Nichols mask?"

The front door's bell rang.

Luke called out, "I'll get it!" from the kitchen.

"What's this?" asked Rory.

"Oh! That is a box of _New Yorker_ magazines with your fancy piece in it. Box one of six."

"You're kidding."

" _Super proud_!"

"Hey, Pretty-Boy's here," said Luke from Rory's bedroom door.

Rory shot Luke an unimpressed look before stalking off to greet Nate. Luke looked at Lorelai, confused, and Lorelai shrugged. "I think it was something you said," she grinned cheerily.


	3. Gilmore Girls Don't Do Ultimatums

**Gilmore Girls Don't Do Ultimatums**

Notes: Boy, is _this_ an oldie. Please don't judge too harshly. Very raw. A mere skeleton, choppy and all over the place. Different formats, and an eyesore. But, hopefully, this might inspire the creation of more _Gilmore_ / _Gossip_ crossovers in the world.

* * *

Logan was there for what he had initially thought would be the first time they met. It was him and her who were together at the time. That night, the couple in love had comprised of himself and Ace – the gorgeous, wondrous, witty girl he was once able to call _his_ ace reporter.

Rory had made it to the Orchid Room from her mother's house. She'd been told by her mom and her dad that they had gotten married on their trip to Paris. Lorelai and Christopher hadn't informed their daughter of the impulsive nuptials until that evening. Rory wasn't impressed with the news.

The only girl Logan had ever fallen in love with slowly wandered into the ridiculously sought after function room. She awkwardly passed a small group of gossiping socialites. The emerging generation of the city's high society wasn't something that Rory had gotten used to – yet. She was better acquainted with the more mature old money crowd in Connecticut, courtesy of her grandmother.

Young women, dressed in the latest designer garb, discussed the tackiness of ostentatiously sized canary diamonds as she walked past them. They viciously conversed with not a cell phone in sight.

The social scene of Manhattan's elite had warped into a mutated likeness of Stars Hollow's alternatively efficient gossip vine. New York City's early-twenty-something citizens had become extremely dependent on word of mouth without their hateful but undeniably addictive Gossip Girl blasts. _The Spectator_ was available to quench some of their desperate scandal cravings. However, its editor-in-chief was trying to publish less juvenile, more reputable content for its readers.

Routine habits were forced to alter over the last few months on the metropolitan island of concrete and metal and glass. Daniel Humphrey had recently released the last chapter of his serialised character studies that intimately picked apart the Upper East Side's most notorious scandal mongers.

Logan's gorgeous Gilmore girl coltishly glided up to him. They briefly kissed and she delved into an exasperated dialogue about snails and France. She endearingly rambled on about her parents and the progress of her processing. She mentioned the blister on her heel and her impressive compartmentalising abilities.

He led her around the room when she was done, explaining the who's who of who were there. Logan pointed out a Rockefeller, a Bass, a Boykin and a Celery. He assured Rory that those were their real names.

The happy pair was approached by Logan's London colleagues from the – unbeknownst as unfortunately fateful – business deal everyone was there that night to celebrate. It appeared that the launch party had attracted _Page Six_.

Rory and Logan listened to a never-ending monologue that forever scarred their thoughts on Tortola. And John Turturro. And tortellini.

A photographer took their picture. Bobbi left to list correct names and spellings to the man with the camera. They had to endure prolonged, self-important proclamations whilst politely waiting for the pain to end. Upon Bobbi's return, an eternally grateful boyfriend and girlfriend were finally freed from the verbal sledgehammer that was Tripp Cavanaugh's tireless trap.

Logan had offhandedly spotted a casual friend as Bobbi dragged Tripp away. "Oh, hey." He gave Rory a grateful grin. "You might actually like this guy." He knew that the two's interests vastly varied. Logan hoped that the guy's fresh foray into the world of journalism had the ability to provide less mind-numbing conversational material.

"Might?"

"ESPN is to him, what C-SPAN is to you."

"ESPN?" Although very familiar with the network that that televised governmental proceedings and public affairs (not to mention, Paris's breakdown about sex and Harvard and her own – at the time – intact chastity belt), Rory had no idea what that was. Or what it had to do with the fairly large accumulation of C-SPAN she had taped, recorded and downloaded over the years.

"He's into sports."

Rory recalled the lunch with her mother at the house of a Harvard University alumnus, mere months before a distressed and dishevelled Paris Gellar pronounced some Tristan Dugray smirk-worthy news on live television. _"We enjoy various aspects of certain sporting endeavours."_ The Gilmores had claimed to have a 'general interest' in athletic activities – that day, 'general' was Gilmore code for non-existent.

"'Might.'" She wasn't sure whether to cringe or giggle. "Gotcha."

Logan Huntzberger guided the love of his life across the packed room. They weaved through smartly uniformed waiters and expensively dressed guests, over to the man that Rory Gilmore _would_ agree to marry. It was he who had reintroduced Nate Archibald to his future wife.

"Nate."

An extraordinarily good-looking guy grinned. "Logan, hey." He was sharply dressed in a professional, black suit and a thin, navy tie. "How're you doing, man?"

"Not too bad."

The boys clapped each other on the back.

"This is my girlfriend, Rory Gilmore," Logan proudly heralded.

Nate's mind took a short moment to register the familiarity of the name he had just heard. Her bright blue eyes met his stunning dark ones. They'd grown up a lot since the last time they had crossed paths. It would've taken them longer to recognise one another, if not for her remarkable eyes and his unforgettable smile.

"Wow!" Nate laughed incredulously. He'd heard the talk but had a hard time believing what he was told. Richard and Emily Gilmore's docile, scholarly granddaughter really _was_ in a real relationship the formerly lazy, philandering playboy. " _You're_ the girl who actually got Logan Huntzberger to commit?"

Rory's eyes sparkled, entertained. Nate recalled their unique iridescence from years ago and neither a shimmer nor glimmer had changed. Logan chuckled, albeit, a tad confused. Nate was a native of New York, Upper East Side born and bred. The van der Bilts, on his mother's side, possessed a lot of property in Connecticut but Logan had no idea that they were already acquainted.

"It's been a while, Archibald."

* * *

Rory and Nate were wide-eyed toddlers the first time they had ever met, two weeks before Christmas. It was the first time that Lorelai had returned to Hartford since she'd left with her year-old daughter. Barring public appearances at philanthropic functions, this was the first time that the Gilmores and the Haydens had electively occupied the same room in over twelve months.

Christopher had returned from New Jersey for the holidays. He distractedly scraped through high school and had started Princeton to the gruff approval of his father, despite the stressful circumstances. For a short while it had seemed like the predestined Hayden plan hadn't been disrupted.

Straub's traditional distance and disdain toward his son returned soon after the Gilmore's annual celebrations that year. Christopher fled from the obligations and responsibilities that suffocated and strapped him to the Northeast before his freshman year was out.

He had already considered himself an absentee father figure. He didn't believe that his departure made a difference. Christopher's irresponsible, unreliable streak had kicked into overdrive when he was weighed down with the full brunt of the overwhelming pressures placed upon him.

"Hey, kiddo!"

"Daddy!"

Mutual friends were invited to Emily and Richard's Christmas party to act as a buffer. In attendance were various van der Bilts. Straub had strong political connections with William, due to his obscurely definable work in arcane aspects of international law. Richard had known the van der Bilt patriarch from Yale. Emily grew up on Manhattan's Upper East Side alongside his wife – who Francine, herself, had attended Amherst with. All had crossed paths many times in their lives.

Anne and Howard were brought in as a completely neutral party. It helped that their son was the same age as the Gilmores' and the Haydens' reason for developing such seasonally ironic relations.

Despite her polite and quiet temperament, Nate was totally intimidated when he had first met Rory. So much so, that his three-year-old mind had stored that memory of her, later carrying it into adulthood.

He had never felt such a thing before. She had made him feel this feeling before he even knew what it was.

Nate was a van der Bilt on his mother's side. His first taste of intimidation should have come from discovering the daunting expectations that were attached to his heritage and his future. That particular birthright was beaten to the punch by the scandal of Hartford's scandals, circa 1991.

Rory was a precociously intelligent child. She'd never hung around other children until then and had assumed that her brain's premature brilliance was anything but. She unintentionally proceeded to worry Nate with her abnormally advanced reading habits and extensive knowledge about topics he had no clue of.

* * *

 **Emily:** Rory, do you remember the Archibalds?

 **Rory:** Sure. I was thirteen the last time they attended a Christmas party.

 **Emily:** Anne, Nate, look who's here.

 **Anne:** Hello, Rory.

 **Rory:** Good evening, Mrs Archibald.

 **Nate:** Rory, hey.

 **Rory:** Hi, Nate.

[the men discuss shoptalk and the women gossip]

 **Nate:** So, where's your mom? Over by the apple tarts, I assume.

 **Rory:** She's at home, actually. There was this, um, this thing with my school dance and Dorothy Parker and Miss Patty's beanbag and – it doesn't matter. Uh, how about your dad? I haven't seen him around tonight.

 **Nate:** That's because he's been in Holland since Thanksgiving.

 **Rory:** Tulip mania back in session?

 **Nate:** Huh?

 **Rory:** You know, tulip bulbs … the Dutch Golden Age … I was making a joke … never mind.

[ **Rory** and **Nate** hear the adults' conversations in their silence]

 **Emily:** … Lorelai couldn't come tonight.

 **Anne:** She couldn't?

 **Emily:** She had to work.

 **Nate:** Didn't you say your mom was at home?

 **Rory:** She is. Excuse me, I have to go and speak to my grandmother.

* * *

 **Chuck:** Get excited, Archibald. We are three hours away from horny women's studies majors wanting to work out all their anger towards men in their bunk beds.

 **Nate:** My heart's still set on USC. I – I just wish my mom wouldn't push Yale so hard.

 **Chuck:** I think she's only pushing it 'cause the van der Bilt side of her family practically owns it. Think of it this way: Yale is your safety school.

 **Nate:** I mean, I guess I could get away from all the drama on the other side of my family and go someplace where they don't know me or the Captain.

 **Chuck:** We blow off the formal visit crap and focus on what really matters – creating your own freshman fifteen.

 **Nate:** Are you not seriously considering going to Yale either?

 **Chuck:** I'm, uh, evaluating colleges based on secret societies. Yale has the crème de la crème, the Skull and Bones. [notices **Nate's** funny expression] What's with the face, Nathaniel?

 **Nate:** Nothing. [purses his lips, knowledge of the Life and Death Brigade being more elusive] So, what about the Skull and Bones?

* * *

 **Lorelai:** Is it just me, or have most of the kids we've passed today look barely old enough for college? I was expecting to be surrounded by unshaven dudes with ticky walks, furrowed brows and glasses.

 **Emily:** Lorelai. [looks at her warningly]

 **Lorelai:** Well, we are at Yale, you know. I was expecting to see some of those stereotypical, smart-looking people here.

 **Richard:** I do suppose it is that time of year – college-bound seniors taking tours of prospective schools.

 **Lorelai:** [suspicious] Mhmm.

 **Rory:** [trying to make peace] Hey, Mom. How about that guy? Wow, does he look smart. I mean it, he's got the smart look down. He's even carrying Kierkegaard.

 **Lorelai:** I guess he has got the walk down.

 **Rory:** So … Grandpa, that art gallery. It was amazing. Thank y― is that Nate? I think it is. We should say hello. We'll be seeing him at the Christmas party in a few weeks, anyway.

[ **Emily** and **Richard** look uncomfortable, and **Lorelai** notices their reaction to **Nate** as **Rory** walks over to him]

* * *

 **Nate:** I thought we were gonna do something. What happened to your master plan, finding the Skull and Bones?

 **Chuck:** You don't find them. They find you.

[ **Nate** thinks about the Life and Death Brigade tradition where legacies were only inducted after scouting out current members on campus themselves – something told to him by his grandfather and his cousins]

 **Nate:** Hmm. That's good. So, we'll just sit here and wait. I mean, there's a football game at one, or the Whiffenpoof performance at –

 **Rory:** Nate!

 **Nate:** Rory?

 **Rory:** Hey.

 **Nate:** Hey, yourself. What are you doing? _Here_? At _Yale_? What happened to Harvard?

 **Rory:** Harvard's still the plan. I'm just here because of Grandpa. What about you? What happened to Southern California?

 **Nate:** Well …

 **Chuck:** Why, Nathaniel, who's your lovely little friend?


	4. Paging Starlight841

**Paging Starlight841**

 _Inspired by Starlight841's_ Déjà Vu _from their now-missing_ Kissmet _series. Totally devastated they deleted all their stories. The stuff by Starlight841 … SO good. Some of my all-time favourites._

Notes: Another choppy pile of chopped liver. Sorry about that. I wrote this so long ago, I don't think I can even remember the backgrounds of these particular next gen OCs.

Oh, and in case you haven't already noticed, most of the fics posted here were written pre-revival. I just felt like unearthing and unloading a lot of stuff after watching it (25/11/16 forever!).

* * *

Lo's normally stoic, straight face was alight with genuine mirth. A workmate wondered if she was on the phone with that ridiculously smart husband of hers. The Dr Tyler with more than one PhD but sans the M.D. was an aerospace engineer who had worked for NASA since his postgraduate studies at MIT.

"Hey, Mom! It's your first pancake, here, calling to let you know I'm on-call this weekend, _all_ weekend, so the old ball and chain and I won't be able to fly up for Friday night dinner. I did that kind and considerate thing the rest of you guys think is important and agreed to swap shifts when some poor schmuck in desperate need asked me. I even responded with a genuinely polite, 'You're welcome.' I'm sure you're pleased that Aunt Paris's uniquely abrasive tendencies didn't completely corrupt me while I was at Mass Gen."

Her workmate was wrong.

"Devon's really busy right now with his smarty-pants space science research and I'll probably be too preoccupied, you know, saving lives and stuff to inform the rest of the 'rents: from Dad to the grands to the great-grands. I know, not much of an excuse seeing as you're probably in another war-torn country, reporting on the tearful woes of refugees or something else equally shocking or interesting or heartbreaking or whatever. But, hey, it's not like we have access to the CNN jet …"

Lo sounded like she was leaving another impressively long-winded message for her mother.

"… although, I guess I _could_ commandeer one of Dad's …"

Her workmate heard a beep and felt a buzz. They grabbed the pager clipped to their chest pocket.

"… I'm aware that I was raised me to be independent from what you, Grams and Grumps call 'unnecessary extravagances,' but I'm sorry. Commercial flights absolutely loathsome."

"Yo, Swan Lake!" they called. All in good humour, there was a lot of teasing directed at Lo for her youth as a prancing bunhead in a tutu and pointe shoes. She had attended Julliard for a year when she was fresh out of high school. "You're needed in the ER."

"I'll be there in a second, Jockstrap." Lo dished out as great as she was given. They joked to her about ballet and she had found ways to poke fun at them for playing football in college.

They frowned at the device in their hand. It was beeping and buzzing again. "Looks pretty urgent."

"Just a sec," Lo sighed. She took out her own pager and proceeded to frown at the flashing alert. She sped through the rest of the voicemail for her mom. "Sorry about that. I'm gonna save some of that irritatingly finite storage space we call a memory and just thank you in advance because I think it is _so incredibly awesome_ how I can always count on my _supportive_ mother who _loves_ me _unconditionally_ to pass on my messages without any convincing or coercion _whatsoever_ , so, thank you. Hopefully we'll have enough time to make it to Hartford next week –"

Both of their buzzers began to sound off again.

"Let's go, Leotard!"

"I'm coming, I'm coming. Geez, dude! Take a pill. Sorry, Mom, gotta go. Give my love to the fam."

"Dr Tyler!"

Lo laughed. "I swear, every time someone calls me 'Doctor Tyler' I think they're talking to Devon. Married life is weird – but good weird. A nicer, simpler, good kind of weird." She lost herself in a classic Gilmore patented tangent of randomness before she finally hung up. "I no longer have to tote around that occasionally awkward and confusing and uncomfortable to explain, triple-barrelled, overly-hyphenated mess that used to be my last name. Not that I don't appreciate the source of my stunning good looks, but it was a mouthful!"

"Paging Lorelai Tyler – _paging_ , in the most literal sense of the word!"

"Crap. I really, really need to hang up now. I just got 'Lorelai-ed.' Kisses! Bye!"

* * *

 _"'… Kisses! Bye!' End of Message."_

"Humph." Rory stared at her phone blankly. "Someone 'Lorelai-ed' Lo."

"Did they now?"

"Yup. Sounded like they full-named her, too. I d-don't know how I fe-f-feel about that."

"What is it, Ror? Why the sad face and the stuttering?"

"She's married, Nate. Our little Lorelai was full-named with her new last name."

"Uh huh. I remember. We were at the ceremony. It wasn't lame or operatic. You looked beautiful in your blue dress. I was the handsome one in the tux who walked the bride down the aisle. There was champagne, and terrible dancing on your part –"

"Hey!"

"– and cake."

"Ooh! The cake! I remember that cake. It was rich and tasty. And round, like all the really good cakes are. The roundness of cakes is very important in my book. The icing ratio was a bit off, though, if you ask me. Frosting is key! Did I teach that girl nothing? Remember our wedding cake? The topmost layer – a whole tier made entirely out of icing! I don't think I'd ever seen my mom so proud. Now _that_ was a good cake."

"Good enough to end your melancholy?"

"Yes. No. I don't know. All I know is I feel old and nostalgic. Lo's not a little girl anymore."

"Well, she _is_ thirty years old."

"You know what I mean."

"You are still struggling with empty nest syndrome."

"Am not."

"And, now that Immy's in college …"

New York's beloved power couple strolled arm in arm through Central Park. Their fingers were tightly but comfortably intertwined. They missed this, the simple things – the holding hands, the sheer physical proximity, the talking face to face.

Nate and Rory Gilmore-Archibald hadn't seen each other in a week and were on an overdue lunch date. He'd retired from the New York Governor's office years ago but had his hands full at the _Spectator_. Rory was an international correspondent for CNN and it had become rare for her to stay in a single location for long.

When their youngest daughter had blossomed into the last teenager they'd (hopefully) ever have to raise and insisted that she didn't need her mother's overenthusiastic parenting anymore, Mrs Gilmore-Archibald dusted off an old goal. She had picked up her dreams of following in Christiane Amanpour's footsteps.

After the year that Rory spent writing for the _New York Times_ , Nate had handed over his reigns at the _New York Spectator_. She was editor-in-chief of what had turned into _their_ media empire for over two decades, since he had won the city's mayoral race; the start of his impressively prolific career in public service.

Rory loved the job but she had to run an entire paper and oversee every single one of its affiliated operations. Richard Gilmore's unstoppable business sense was something that she'd channelled and had put to fruitful use when she was in charge.

It had been a long time since the _Spectator_ was an aging newspaper attempting to rebrand itself. It had grown into a successful brand associated with fairness and honesty and perseverance. Its parent company, Spec. Press, was a multimedia conglomerate monster synonymous with the greatest city in the world.

* * *

Their pairing had been found funny to many. She was a brain surgeon and he was a rocket scientist. Devon and Lo Tyler's courtship had sent more than a few disbelieving sniggers their way.

Lo was off the phone and had rushed to the elevator, managing to gracefully glide through the air whilst she sped. "You coming or what?" She popped an unimpressed hand on her hip, just like her Aunt Serena had taught her. "I thought we were needed in the ER for an urgent emergency." Her face fell into its infamous second-nature smirk. Lo's mom said she looked a lot like her late birth father when she did that. She had never met him. He was a Marine and had died on duty a few months after she was conceived.

* * *

The stressful hustle and bustle outside the conference room looked more attractive than the tearfully boring meeting Jack was manipulated into sitting in on that afternoon. Logan Huntzberger was in the process of acquiring another newspaper and had dragged his apathetic son away from New Haven to join him. With his big sister out of the picture, settled in Los Angeles and refusing to return, the future of the Huntzberger Publishing Group had fallen onto Jack's hesitant shoulders.

Jack used to love spending time with his father. That was before their lives in California were uprooted and they relocated to New England.

He was fourteen when the grandfather he'd never met had health problems and was forced into retirement. After Mitchum Huntzberger's heart attack-induced death, not long later, they moved to Boston while Shira kept her run of the house in Hartford. Work soon became his dad's first priority and he was sent to boarding school because no one had the time or could be bothered to put in the effort to deal with him.

It took less than twelve months for his mother to conform to the pressures of living in amongst American blue bloods. Ignoring her upper middle-class pedigree, the former Miss Sarah Blake was malleable enough to be moulded into his paternal grandmother's twisted ideals of a perfect wife. Jack's mom had transformed into a selfish, shallow shell of herself. And his sister … the second London hit eighteen and had her trust fund, she returned to the West Coast and hardly looked back.

The (former) San Francisco Huntzbergers hadn't been close to each other in a while. Logan was the most distant of them all. The Huntzberger Group's CEO for the past eight years became an impervious, emotionless rock the day their patriarch died. He had turned cold and hard. He was nothing like the man who had fathered a younger London and Jack, growing up in the Bay Area.

Logan's face twitched, only enough for someone who knew him really well to notice. A young man who worked for the _NYC Pulse_ had politely knocked and popped his head in to summon somebody for some sort of important task, no doubt. Today's meeting was apparently 'important.' Staff at the _Pulse_ knew not to interrupt Mr Huntzberger's meetings without a dire situation at hand.

Jack hadn't lived his whole life in the Northeast but the earnest-faced guy with the bright blue eyes at the door was instantly recognisable. He was the youngest Gilmore-Archibald boy – the journalist (just like his mother); the one with no political aspirations (unlike his father); the son who hadn't spent the last year gallivanting across the globe for no reasons other than a good time (the opposite of his older brother).

Hayden Gilmore-Archibald had sought work at a paper unaffiliated with his parents' new media empire and found it with the _Pulse_. An alumnus of Yale and formerly of the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism, he was now employed as a full-time investigative reporter. As far as Jack had heard during his unwitting visits to the _Pulse_ offices, he was a hard worker and a, if possible, even more talented writer.

Jack didn't understand why his father's jaw clenched whenever Gilmore-Archibald made an appearance. His dad made the same tensed face he always wore whenever he was able to smell strong coffee. Jack's dad hadn't been able to stand the stuff for as long as he could remember.

* * *

Jack was sitting below a large tree and reading the Chronicle when a soccer ball flew at his head. The impact came from one hell of a kick. His nose wasn't broken but it sure felt like it was, and he would know. He'd been stupid enough to life to know what the real thing felt like.

He had set aside today's paper. He brought his hand up to his face. Something warm and wet coated his fingertips. He was bleeding.

Jack looked up in search of the Atomic Flee wannabe. A tiny figure swathed in a comically large orange and black sweatshirt, tucked into some loose jeans, ran up to him. There was no one else around. The offending soccer ball had to be from the person who proudly wore _PRINCETON_ across their chest whilst in the wrong state. However, that was better than having _HARVARD_ emblazoned on their clothing when standing within Yale territory.

Jack thought the cause of his pain was a young boy that had an older brother who went to the less impressive Ivy in New Jersey until he noticed a long, golden brown ponytail swinging behind the backwards baseball cap. When the figure came close enough to sufficiently scrutinise, Jack realised that the culprit was a girl.

She was pale, her porcelain skin far too fair to have spent much time away from the Northeast. It was the start of a new school year. The girl had most likely originated from out of town.

She drew nearer. She had to be a college girl, around his age if he had to guess. She was … she was beautiful. Jack didn't need to see beyond her shapeless attire to notice that.

She wasn't Jack's usual type by miles. She wasn't what he would describe as _hot_.

There wasn't a lick of makeup on her face. It was fortunate that her perfectly even complexion afforded the luxury of not needing it. Her assets were hidden, they weren't prominently put on display like any random pick from his usual rotation. Her slight five-foot frame indicated that she had anything but legs for days.

She simply didn't scream _sex_. Her very person equated to the exact opposite of what Jack always aimed for.

Still … she had to be awfully fit if her hard kick and lack of heavy breathing after sprinting to his side were any indication. Ergo, stamina. And she was gorgeous. Uncommonly so. She also looked a little familiar. Jack wasn't sure from where or when, but he knew that he'd seen her face before. He didn't know what to make of that.

A set of large eyes flashed with concern. Shocking blue locked on warm chocolate. Jack had never seen irises so startlingly rich a colour before. Those eyes suited her. The unearthly brightness went well with that ethereal baby doll face of hers.

Jack whipped out his second nature smirk, an inherent trait that had yet to fail in serving him well. "I can't decide whether or not this would quality as a cute meet." It seemed that there was a first time for everything, after all. His words fell upon deaf ears and his charm, a distracted stranger.

"I am so, so sorry!" the small girl earnestly cried. She yanked off the dark azure baseball cap that sat back to front on her brown – blonde – blonde-brown – brown-blonde? – head. She gently dabbed his nose with its rounded crown. "I wasn't really paying attention. Tryouts are soon, so I thought I'd better practice, but then my phone ra― oh, crap."

The girl's hands hastily handed Jack her hat and delved into her baggy jean pockets, searching for something. She pulled out a cell phone from her back pocket. "You still there?" She nodded at nobody in particular. "I'll call you back later. I might have accidentally maimed someone …"

 _Might?_ Jack chuckled to himself and then winced. His nose still stung.

"… yeah, yeah. Love you too. Bye." The girl turned her attention back to him. "And, again, I have to express how sorry I am about something I did to you. Which I am. Sorry," she grimaced. "I'm sorry about my ball and your nose. And my remissness, thereafter, which led to the rude interruption of my apologies about my ball and your nose." She sighed to herself. It seemed that she'd only just gotten how the sentence she just said had sounded. "And, yes, somewhere in the State of Connecticut, my Grams is saying, 'Dirty!' under her breath in a scandalised yet amused tone."

Jack Huntzberger raised an eyebrow. This girl was many things. Beautiful. Athletic. In possession of an impressive lung capacity. And very odd.

* * *

 **OR (alternate meeting** _– to be honest, I don't even know if this makes any sense anymore_ **):**

Immy Gilmore-Archibald sat alone in a slowly filling dining hall. A considerably tall pile of newspapers was stacked next to several bowls of what used to hold sugary, chocolately cereal.

From childhood, she and her siblings were trained to rise early for the sole purpose of snagging Gilmore-sized helpings of coco puffs before the stations had emptied in the morning at college. Before Immy started at Yale a few weeks ago, she had thought that her mother was insane for doing this. The two times she stupidly thought an extra however-many-minutes spent in the comfort of a warm bed would make no difference proved that her mom's reasons were sound.

Immy practically inhaled her fifth cup of coffee. It wasn't nearly as good as the stuff sold at the cart close to the rowdiest frat house on campus but it made do. She _needed_ her morning fix. Deprive anyone with Gilmore blood coursing through their veins of coffee and thou shalt not live to see another day.

She had finished perusing all articles of interest in her inky paper stack when a select group of hungover guys stumbled into the dark wood-panelled room. She didn't recognise any of them. They dressed like her brothers and approached the empty table she was at, occupied by only herself.

The dishevelled boys, clad in crinkled designer everything, reeked of scotch and cigars. Their combined odour was more pungent than her dad and his friends after a poker night. One of them, a blond with short hair that stuck up in every possible direction, took a seat right next to Immy. The others followed suit and commandeered the rest of the space around her.

The blond, who greatly resembled an ex-boyfriend of hers, spoke up first. "Hey, do you mind if we sit here?"

"You and your pansy boy posse already did. Why try commencing with common courtesy now?" asked Immy.

"Pansy boy?" questioned the tall guy with dark red hair.

The brown-haired one quickly flicked a hand, as if burnt. "Ouch."

"Hostile," said the redhead.

"What did we do to deserve that?" asked the blond.

"I'm not the one who waltzed in here, smelling like an uncleaned gentleman's club during breakfast," said Immy flatly. "You do realise that this is the dining hall, don't you? This is a hall in which people dine. People eat here. It's lucky I already ate or I'd have lost my appetite. Actually, there is now the unfortunate possibility that it may come back up for an encore. Well done."

"We've got a live one here, gents!" The redhead was rubbing his hands together excitedly.

The blond pretended to be offended, though it was obvious he was more amused than anything else. "Pansy boy posse?"

"You're moaning and groaning after an evening of Cubans and some single malt. Hmm …" Immy daintily wafted some air towards her with her hand and sniffed. "… Macallan. Aged less than twenty years – I'd wager, eighteen. Surely headaches such as the ones you are all so clearly sporting warrant copious amounts of harder stuff than that."

"A girl after my own heart," said the brunette boy.

"I think I'm in love!" exclaimed the redhead.

The blond squinted at Immy and then smirked in recognition. "I didn't take you for much of a partier, Gilmore-Archibald."

The rest of the boys took a good look at her. Recognition struck them, too.

Immy narrowed her eyes at the use of her surname. No one else so far had been able to identify her straight off the bat after she'd cut and dyed her hair. "I'm not."

"Then –"

She cut the blond off. "It's been a displeasure. Goodbye, non-gentlemen. Unhappy hangovers." Immy got up to leave, but briefly turned back. She took a chance and whispered into the blond guy's ear. "In omnia paratus?"

The blond jumped up in his seat, and she laughed.

"Thought so." Immy grabbed a black blindfold that was in her handbag and dropped it in the lap of the boy next to his left, the redhead. "Thanks, but no thanks." She walked away, laughing.

"Now I know I'm in love," sighed Huck, the boy with the dark red hair.

Mack, the brunette, was scratching his chin contemplatively. "I thought she was the shy one in her family."

"Nah, that's the really smart surgeon one."

"'Really smart,' Huck? Really? You'd better hope the one that's a surgeon would be _really smart_ , wouldn't you?" said Mack sarcastically.

Jack Huntzberger didn't join in on his best friends' conversation. He was speechless. He was just another Huntzberger boy rendered (momentarily, let's not forget) speechless by a Gilmore girl.

* * *

Jack sat near the back of his World Politics class for the subject's first tutorial that semester. He enjoyed school and wanted a good grade but had half an eye trained on scoping the female portion of the room. He couldn't help it. It was second nature. Jack was fortunate that he had excellent multitasking capabilities.

There was small figure at the front that remained a mystery throughout the class. This bothered Jack. He was more inquisitive than most. He couldn't stand leaving a stone unturned.

The figure was the size of a pre-adolescent boy and dressed like one too. It quickly became incredibly clear what their favourite colour was.

They wore cobalt Chuck Taylors, loose jeans and a huge, shapeless hoodie that was sloppily shoved up at the sleeves. Jack would've thought the puzzling person was some precocious child prodigy if they didn't have a long, glossy ponytail and feminine hands. Or pull their books and pens from a big, blue handbag that he knew could have cost as much as his Porsche if the glistening scales were any indicator.

Yes, he was a guy. And, yes, he did know how to identify and differentiate between the price tags of an Hermès premier product. He was a Huntzberger. Knowing things that were apparently 'a thing' and, therefore, everything about those things came with the territory.

Funnily enough, it was Jack's father from whom he'd learnt what a Birkin bag was. Not his Aunt Honour, who was practically a personal shopper for a party of one: herself. He wondered why his dad had stored this kind of menial information. He supposed that it didn't hurt with the ladies.

He blamed his father and the short attention span he'd inherited from the man.

Jack's proclivity for impatience had yet to divert his thoughts from the mystery girl that sat front row, centre. He had an insatiable appetite for knowing all the answers to all the questions he came across. His grandfather would proudly proclaim he'd make a great journalist when they visited. His dad would, then, steely respond that his future was his choice and nobody else's.

When left to his own devices, Jack was torn. He loved to write, always had. He also wanted to be like his dad someday. His father was legendary on the West Coast. Logan Huntzberger moved to California on his own with a nearly depleted trust fund and had risen to the top of Silicon Valley's technology rat race since then. Captain Industries had rendered Apple obsolete before Jack was even born.

Jack only had two years left to figure out what he wanted to do in the real world. He had to make this year and the next year count. He tried to forcibly remove the mystery girl from his mind. He tried to focus all his attention on his World Politics professor. He tried to reign in his wandering eye. Emphasis on _try_. And that's what he did. Jack had _tried_ to do those things – for the rest of the hour.

He had two more years of college to go. He could be serious about life later. He could think about the future again in twelve months. There was no need to upturn his entire world now. Jack had no reason to make that big a change for a good, long while.

In the meantime, there was that frumpily clothed girl to figure out. And, perhaps, there was the blonde bombshell that had spent the past ten minutes checking him out to _ask_ out.

* * *

Immy had taken a seat right at the front of the room at the beginning of class, which was why she'd ignored the funny feeling that someone was watching her. Except for the teacher, all of the eyeballs there were facing the same direction. Forward. And, doubtfully, at her.

The funny little feeling had lingered for the whole hour. It never went away. When the hour was over and the tutorial had finished, Immy spun around and inspected the occupants of the classroom before they left. She wasn't willing to miss writing down any notes for the simple sake of curiosity. Not when they could be proven important when midterms started.

Immy carefully scoured the place. There were some people in Yale sweatshirts chatting, a nerdy guy trying to balance a toppling stack of textbooks, a pair of good-looking blonds at the back unabashedly flirting like there was no tomorrow, and a group of girls fixated on their cell phones. She dismissed the thought that somebody had been staring at her throughout all of class. Her high school days with the current reigning Gossip Girl seriously messed with her paranoia.

* * *

Head bowed, books out and pen in hand, Dick was actually taking something seriously for a change. A round robin of a shocker for everyone who knew him – heck, anyone who had even heard of him. The eldest Gilmore-Archibald boy wasn't exactly known for his ambition. No matter how often his grandparents – Gilmores, Haydens, van der Bilts, Archibalds and all – went behind his parents' back in trying to change him, Richard Gilmore-Archibald's lazy ran stories upon stories deep.

It was fortunate that his laughable lack of work ethic had never hindered him. Only one of the Gilmore-Archibald children didn't graduate from high school as valedictorian, and it wasn't him. He and hard work were not bosom buddies but he'd taken a bet that he could graduate top of his class. Six years of indecisive flitting between majors before graduating from college and a lost year after that to 'find himself' later, Dick found himself back at Yale and in law school.

A sharp and rapid knocking issued from his apartment door, the result of a small fist rapping on thick wood.

* * *

"His Royal Hotness has returned."

"Like clockwork."

"Who was the idiot that first said predictability was boring?"

A collective of girlish sighs issued around the formerly little known corner that was home to the best coffee cart on campus. An athletic, six-foot four monolith of pretty-boy handsome was there for his first jolt of the day. Had Dick not been caffeine deprived thus far, he still wouldn't be weirded out whatsoever. He knew what he looked like in a mirror. He wasn't ashamed of his perceived attractiveness, nor was he too humble or bashful to appreciate its advantages.

"Hey, Sal. A double red eye, please."

"Cutting back, Gilmore?"

"I can't risk increasing my already astronomical dependency right now. The winter sport season's around the corner."

"Can't let down the Bulldogs, huh?"

"You'd be right, my man."

Someone approached the girls eyeing Dick Gilmore-Archibald.

"My, my. We have lofty aspirations for ourselves right now, don't we?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"The Gilmore-Archibald of every girl's eye, of course."

The Gilmore-Archibald sons were talked about as if they were a boy band that love struck fan girls picked their favourite to fawn over.

"Every girl's eye? I dunno. My heart's been pretty set on the smart one since high school."

"I've always been more partial toward the youngest one, myself. He is, by far, the hottest. In my opinion."

* * *

"I'm not being secretive!" cried Immy.

 _"Uh, yeah. You are. What? Are you ashamed of this person who appears to have preoccupied every precipice of your time as of late?"_ Lo's voice came from the phone.

"No."

 _"Was that supposed to convince me? Your tone wasn't very convincing."_

"I'm not ashamed."

 _"Then you'll invite him?"_

"Fine. Yes. Whatever."

 _"It is a_ him _, right? Is that why you don't want to introduce this person you're dating? My, my. Has the family Mary's been doing a little college experimenting?"_

"It's a him! No experimenting!"

 _"Overreact much?"_

"Ignoring you now."

 _"So, this weekend?"_

"I heard you the first time.

 _"Yes or no? I'd like to be able to pass on some verification sometime soon."_

"I'll ask him if he wants to accompany me this weekend. Happy?"

 _"Ecstatic."_

"Yippee."

 _"So, yes, it's a yes?"_

"Yes, _William_."

 _"Shut up."_

"My mistake. I meant to say _Emily_."

 _"I'm electively choosing to disregard your disdainful tone and take that as a compliment. Don't be late."_

"Yeah, yeah."

 _"This weekend!"_

"This weekend. Got it the first few hundred times. Bye."

"What was that about?" Jack asked as Immy hung up on her sister.

"Um, well …"

"Yes?"

"Are you particularly busy this weekend?"

"I'm not sure. Are you?"

"Huh?"

"I mean, I was planning on being busy with my girlfriend this weekend."

"Cute."

"So?"

"So?"

"Why do you need to know if I'm particularly busy this weekend?"

"You remember how we've been exclusive for a while now, right?"

"I'm aware, considering that I'm the one who suggested our exclusivity in the first place."

"And, well, it's not an uncommon occurrence for boyfriends to meet their girlfriend's families."

"I assume it's time to meet the parents?"

"Only if you feel comfortable with it."

"Hey, I'm game."

"It won't just be my mom and dad, though."

"Brothers and half-sister?"

"Plus the extended family."

"Wow."

"It's going to be a reunion, of sorts."

"Can't wait to show off the hottie you bagged?"

"Kinda a biggie, actually."

"Or not."

"Actually, 'some sorts' isn't exactly a good way to describe it. Big and official, is more like it."

"Are you trying to convince me to go or fend me off?"

"If you don't want to, I totally understand."

"Because it really sounds like the latter."

"Are you sure you'll be OK with this?"

"Hey, come on. It won't be so bad."

"If you're sure …"

"I'm sure."

"How do you feel about surprises?"

"You know me. Ready for anything."

"Even _Scarface_ on a football field?"

"Huh?"

"Remind me to pack lots and lots of frozen peas."

"Why would you need to bring frozen peas?"

"They're not for me. They're for you."

"You lost me," said Jack.

Immy looked serious. "Just … trust me. If you really intend on coming, you'll need them."

* * *

"I remember my first time here. Intimidating. I'm … A family friend. I've known everyone here almost all my life."

"Jack. Nice to meet you. And _yes_ on the intimidating front. I feel like Trump daring to tread Tinseltown in twenty-sixteen."

"Oh, don't fret. Everyone's cool, man. I'd steer clear of Brandt, though."

"Wha―"

Jack was interrupted by Liam blowing a whistle hanging around his neck while Andy threw a football at them.

"So?" said Andy.

"Who's up for some touch football?" enthused Liam.

"And there's you're proof, dude. Let's go!"

* * *

"You ladies ready to rock?" grinned Dick.

The boys and Immy were playing touch football. Liam hadn't been allowed to play since he was drafted in the NFL after college. He was wearing a whistle around his neck. The only involvement he was permitted with these days was refereeing.

"Hey, Baby Boy! Go deep, bro!"

Andy caught the ball, ran with it for a few fleet steps and then passed it back to Jack.

"I'm sixteen years old!" whined Andy. "Would everyone please stop calling me that?"

Everyone exchanged amused glances before poorly humouring him with barely placating smiles.

"Whatever …"

Immy had just slammed Jack to the ground to get the football.

"What the hell was that, Gilmore?" Jack was astonishment. "I know you said ' _Scarface_ on a football field,' but you have boobs and this is football." He was shocked, really.

"And you have a pair of gonads – but I bet you'll have fun if those get hit," she smiled sweetly.

 _Sweetly!_ How was it that she still managed to look so sweet and innocent?

"Unbelievable. There's no penalty?"

"You want Liam to call that?" teased Immy.

Jack crossed his arms. "I thought this was touch, not rugby."

"Tough, superficial space cadet. You wanna quit?" she taunted, smirking.

He scoffed. "As if."

Jack smirked back and Immy laughed because he got her reference.

"I hoped you packed some frozen peas, Cher."

"Let's play, Cap Rooney."

"Wait, shouldn't that be you?"

Jack 'Cap' Rooney. Huh. Well, she wasn't wrong.

A van der Bilt, Jack was pretty sure, came up to him and patted him on the shoulder after Dick tackled him to get the ball that was just thrown to him.

"Don't worry, man. You'll pick up on how the van der Bilt clan likes to play touch football quick enough."


	5. The Incredible Rising Archibalds

**The Incredible Rising Archibalds: 30 years later**

 _Camelot is alive and well on the Upper East Side. Manhattan's elite has grown up, gotten married, had children. What of the Archibald family? Is it any surprise that they are_ The Brady Bunch _of New York?_

Notes: Future fic. Timelines shifted to match. Changed Rory's year of birth to 1990, aligning with the Non-Judging Breakfast Club.

 **As should be obvious, most of these were written AGES AGO with pre-revival optimism.**

* * *

gossipgirl

 **welcome** | to gossip girl! the site about the upper east side, for the upper east side and by the upper east side! | **gossip** | the latest '411' on all the in people. | **pics** | see what the fashionistas of the ues are wearing. CURRENT PHOTO GALLERY | **parties** | your invitation was probably lost in the mail!  CLICK HERE to see what you missed. | **links**

 **In depth profile of Andy Archibald**

 _[_ _Image Currently Unavailable_ _]_

 **Lives with:** his mom, Rory Gilmore, and dad, Nate Archibald, in the One Vanderbilt penthouse

 **Likes:** sailing, adventure sports, motocross, his mountain bike, camping, fly fishing, photography, postcards, Cliffs Notes, ComiXology, good coffee, Pop-Tarts, "beefaroni", eating in general, paintball, Manchester United, USMNT, the Rangers, the Mets, the Knicks, the Jets, Yale Bulldogs

 **Dislikes:** math, lying, confrontation, comparing and contrasting

 **Best Friend:** his sister, Riley

 **Girlfriend:** it's complicated, between the Collins twins

 **Favourite fashion trend:** does the colour blue count?

 **Favourite designers:** Brooks Brothers, J. Crew, Thom Browne, C.P. Company, Belstaff, Ralph Lauren, Bespoke Waldorf-Bass

 **Favourite places in New York:** Sheep Meadow, Wollman Rink, Madison Square Garden, Chelsea Piers, Coney Island, Two-Bit's Retro Arcade, SPiN, John's Pizza, La Maison du Chocolat, Sugar Factory American Brasserie, Dylan's Candy Bar, Loeb Boathouse, the Yale Club, 4 E. 74th St. (the old Archibald townhouse AKA party central of the UES)

 **Favourite Music:** Deaf Screamers, U2, Tom Waits, The Kinks, Queen, The Beatles, Sparks, The White Stripes, Hep Alien, Rancid, The Ramones, The Clash, Red Hot Chilli Peppers, David Bowie, Iggy Pop, Elvis Costello, Panic, The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, Metallica, AC/DC, Hawk, Oasis, The Offspring, Simple Plan, Busted, McFly, the Jacks, Just Another Boy Band

 **Favourite Authors:** J. R. R. Tolkien, Roald Dahl, J.K. Rowling, Gail Simone, Neil Gaiman, Brian Michael Bendis, J. Michael Straczynski, Grant Morrison, Scott Snyder, Geoff Johns, Anthony Horowitz, Ian Fleming, Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, William S. Burroughs, Jon Krakauer, Jack London, Tom Perrotta, Daniel Humphrey, Ernest Hemingway, Kurt Vonnegut, Hunter S. Thompson, Jess Mariano

 **Favourite Movies:** _The Subsect_ , _Pulp Fiction_ , _Die Hard_ , _Dead Poets Society_ , _Ferris Bueller's Day Off_ , _The Goonies_ , _Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory_, _Airplane!_ , _Wayne's World_ , _Tropic Thunder_ , _The Towering Inferno_ , _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ , _Mad Max_ , _The Bad News Bears_ , _Hoosiers_ , _Caddyshack_ , _Lords of Dogtown_ , _The Golden Arm_ , _Mallrats_

 **Favourite TV Shows:** _Animaniacs_ , _South Park_ , _The Simpsons_ , _Steve & Kwan_, _Saved by the Bell_ , _Saturday Night Live_ , _Chuck_ , _The Oval Office_ , _Boardwalk Empire_ , _The Inside_ , _Starlight Heath_ , _Wildecats_ , _The Pitch_ , _The Fishing Line_ , _Planet X_ , _Man vs. Mars_ , _MacGyver_ , _Hogan's Heroes_ , _M*A*S*H_ , _The A-Team_ , _The Brave and the Bold_ , _Elseworlds_ , 1966 _Batman_

 **Heroes:** his family

 **Motto:** "I'm just trying to keep up."

More on Andy Archibald »

* * *

 **Archibald apartment | New York City, NY**

 _"Andy, your tie."_

Andy had polished off his fifth Pop Tart and three cups of coffee by the time his father appeared. The faintly yellow shirt of his St. Jude's uniform was wrinkled and untucked. His top button was ignored, left undone, as per habit – a lifelong habit he only got away with when his mother was out of town.

Andy's striped crimson necktie was unintentionally askew, just like his dad wore it when he was a teenager. It didn't matter that his clothes were professionally pressed. Aside from the eldest, it was rare to find the young Archibalds in a pristine state of dress.

Nate Archibald had outgrown his absentminded penchant for throwing on thousands of dollars worth of clothes with nonexistent forethought. He hadn't been like that since youth, prior to his internship at the _Spectator_. And partially tied ties were hardly suitable attire for an elected official, after all.

 _"Andy. Tie."_

It sounded as if Andy wouldn't be getting away with his inherent habit today. Nate was unsurprised to see a Google Plate propped up on the marble island he sat at. Even with all-but-all-consuming careers, overworn passports and a rapidly emptying nest, the Archibalds were a tight-knit unit.

Nate and his wife had hectic schedules, but they were determined to avoid absent parenting. They stretched themselves to the edge of sanity to be involved, and had succeeded in being annoyingly so. They were very hands-on; rather interfering; essentially, a seamless team of mortifying parental busybodies. When they needed a sitter, Nate's parents and Rory's dad and the kids' Aunt Gigi were the first they called.

Anne had merely shifted to 1009 Fifth Avenue after espousing a Dutch shipping heir. Though the Captain had retired to a shorefront estate in Maine and a new Mrs Archibald, he was oft to revisit the modest home he had kept in Long Island. Decades ago, Christopher had relocated to the Brompton in Yorkville with his blonde-pigtailed six-year-old in tow. Gigi graduated from Brearley and went to Sarah Lawrence; moved back to New York City after getting her MBA at Wharton; rather publically split from a modern Jude Law; and now lived with her son at 432 Park Avenue, a five minute car ride from One Vanderbilt Place – colloquially referred to as "The Spectator Building" and, locally, the "Spectacle".

Once credulously counted on, now babysitting services were no longer required. Andy had just turned sixteen. He was a high school sophomore but the kind of kid who could – without hesitation – be trusted to act tearfully boring when his mom and dad were elsewhere. Minus his big sister dragging him along for the ride, he wasn't the type to run amok around the city. There was no way that he, alone, would commandeer a plane in order to use "party" as a verb in Croatia. It was of no consequence that Grace Collins, self-anointed Upper East Side Queen and self-appointed nightmare of every parent, had become his girlfriend.

It was an _Anderson Gilmore Hayden Vanderbilt_ , not a _Richard Charles Daniel_ , before the _Archibald_ on his birth certificate. He hadn't literally put to pen a meticulous _Risky Business_ - _Accepted_ - _Old School_ flow chart as a potential life plan instead of perusing college catalogues. Andy was the reserved and retiring baby of the family. Their home used to bear a strong likeness to an overcrowded frat house – nowhere near the same as Dick's den of debauchery at Yale (or Granny's very empty, very _Animal House_ townhouse off of Fifth Avenue) but a lot like any given testosterone chock-filled fraternity nonetheless. It had not resembled as such since Riley flew the coop – properly, this time – for Stanford.

Andy had received a video call during his second cup of the day. It was from his mom. He was immensely relieved on each occasion she checked in, and not just because he was a _slight_ (as loathe as he was to admit it) mama's boy (but weren't they all?). No one was a fan of the danger Mrs Archibald faced on assignment.

There was a handful more narrow squeaks that had stemmed from _the_ Rory Gilmore's employment as a fully fledged foreign correspondent, the past ten years. She had hit the trail for Egypt. Extremists were angling for the _Arab Spring, Part II_. A ruthless dictator, rallying for a reverse effect of the recently finished conflicts, had risen.

All manner of Archibalds, van der Bilts, Gilmores and Haydens perpetually worried in wait. They were impatient for her return. Andy missed his mommy and Nate missed his wife. Rory had her dream job and she was deeply affected by the importance to report on what was really going on. Still, she couldn't wait for her homecoming herself. She missed her adoring husband and she missed her baby boy.

 _"Andy, your tie, please."_

The teenager grumbled, "Fine." His straightened tie was challenged by a cleared throat. He did his top button. The conspicuous coughing hadn't ceased. "What now, Mom?"

 _"You think I don't know you haven't properly tucked in your shirt, Andy Archibald?"_

Andy sighed. The lady didn't need to see his lower half to know that. Surely, he wasn't that predictable? Then again, discounting Neil, his siblings were just that. Kinda predictable. All the Archibalds were on some level. A lifetime of transparency, reflexive honesty and staunch decency meant predictability. And horrendous lying capabilities. And terrible, _terrible_ poker faces.

Andy had no idea how his brother won Cruz Beckham's boat in that game last year. He believed it was incredibly foolish that Dick had risked the prized ponies of his _Iron Man_ collection. The odds were definitely not in his favour. He cared about those mint condition R8s as much as he did Hadley Leichter, and he wasn't exactly a card shark.

 _Transparency_. _Honesty_. _Decency_. The words should have been stitched onto the family crest when Dad became the patriarch of the van der Bilt clan.

Dick didn't bother with prim or proper appearances unless pestered. Topher was an atrocity. Mom knew this. Save for cotillions to appease their grandparents, Riley may as well have been born with a Y-chromosome instead of the supplementary X for the amount of care she committed to everyday presentation – her chosen extracurriculars and the _extra-extracurriculars_ that Aunt Blair had _gently_ nudged her into didn't count, either. While Neil was the odd man out, Andy's personal grooming rituals were indistinguishable from the rest. Largely lacking.

Andy had stood up from his Chris-cross legged stool at the cobalt kitchen counter. He was tucking his wrinkled shirt into his crinkled pants when his dad greeted him by way of squeezing his shoulder.

Nate strode in, amusement splashed across his handsome face. A face which, though aged by thirty-six years, was nigh identical to his youngest son's. The only facial discrepancies between Nathaniel and Anderson Archibald were the shocking blue eyes and the tiny chin imprint the latter had entered the world with.

Each of Rory and Nate's kids had her eyes and her cleft chin, and his hair and his dimpled cheeks. Mostly. Dick had been teased with every blond joke in the book, born with a head of Granny's minky gold strands that only started growing out at age ten. Riley had been the opposite yet the same. Her hair had started out as dark as Grams's, and then lightened into that famously Archibald gold-streaked brown later on.

An additional trait the children had that Rory did not was the ability to get a decent tan, whereas Nate lacked his family's uptight attitude about time management. That attitude was something he could never envision competing against, even aided by the overly competent team at his beck and call whilst he was in office.

 _"The Governor's up already? Surely it's not 'dawn' on the Upper East Side just yet."_

Nate chuckled. His service as the _Governor_ of the State of New York was going on twelve years. His warm reply was juxtaposed with sardonically rolling eyes that were nearly as blue but not quite as bright as his wife's and his son's. "Love you too, Chief."

Rory's smile had widened on the paper-thin, glossy glass screen. She was appointed as CNN's _Chief_ International Correspondent four years ago. Previous to her position on cable news, she was the editor-in-chief of _The New York Spectator_.

Nate pressed a hand to his lips, lovingly pecked it and transferred the sweet nothing onto the screen. Rory immediately imitated her husband's endearment. From her end, she had pressed her hand to her own Plate. Andy tried not to choke on his sixth Pop Tart.

It was great that his parents were in love after a quarter century of marriage. It sucked that they weren't shy about the sickening state of their relationship. The speeches at the vowel renewal for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary that summer were scarring, to say the least. Andy had decided to study his cufflinks with extreme intensity the second somebody added to the tally of clinking champagne flutes.

It wasn't funny when Grams had reminded him what a vasectomy was. It was less funny when she informed him that his dad had gotten one after his conception and _why_. He had then spent the weekend at Grandma's acreage in the Cape attempting to erase that information with the dime bags of hash he convinced Milo and Henry to share. And, _no_. He was _not alone_ in asking. The gazebo by the sand and the guest house behind the trees had become popular places.

Andy disgustedly cringed. "Dad's up. The two of you are going to be gross. That means it's skedaddle time." He had scarfed the last of his breakfast with haste. He saw his father's mouth opening. "You don't need to ask, Dad. I took out John, Paul and Jones for their walk right after my run this morning," he said dryly. "The Archibald Menagerie will live to lollop another day."

 _"Menagerie"_ was no joke. Dick hoarded exotic animals and Riley couldn't bear to part with strays like Uncle Dan and Auntie S brought home orphans from every corner of the globe. The Humphreys had more fosterlings than the Archibalds experienced contraceptive anomalies.

Governor Archibald and Rory Gilmore were titans. They had a monolithic mountain of obligations that almost made Atlas's burden seem insignificant. Andy was the lone leftover, the lonesome crumb, left to look after the pets. Dick and his domesticated petting zoo were, thankfully, giving the manager of the Taft Building hell. _Un_ thankfully, the dogs that Riley had adopted from shelters and homeless animal fairs still lived at the Spectacle. She had as many commitments to miraculously juggle as their parents, if not more, and hadn't found the time to move them in with her. And so, Andy had been charged with the responsibility for them all until she finally did.

Andy saw his dad's uncannily similar face shift. His capacity to read his father rivalled Neil's and his mother's because a younger carbon copy was his own reflection. He held up a halting hand. _"And_ we left Roger Staire, Daisy Eagan, Sgt. Pepper and Hunky Dan with Grandpop last Saturday, remember?"

His aunt had a business trip, so Hayden was staying with the grandfather they shared. His cousin had always wanted to bring home a puppy, and their co-op allowed animals, but Aunt Gigi was a cat person. They had two Doll Face Persians: Massandra and Mouton.

"So, uh, yeah. I'll just leave you two to – er – your, um – your fun." Andy physically recoiled.

Enough for his mother to notice.

 _"Hey, you! Child of mine. What's there to complain about now? We're not even on the same continent."_

Nate affectionately ruffled his son's golden brown hair. The cheerful grin he had gleaned from seeing and talking to his beautiful, beloved wife didn't falter. "Come on, Andy."

 _"Yeah, come on, Andy. Would you rather us be_ Joni Loves Chachi _or me buy a panic room and your dad make an attempt on_ The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire _? You know how scary he thinks books that big are –"_

"Hey!"

 _"– and it's a honking huge one! Horrendous! Horrific! A horrendously horrific piece of horror, if you ask that useless pretty boy I married –"_

"I like to think I've improved under your _encouraging_ and _unjudging_ stewardship."

 _"– Is that what you want? Do you want me to find a glitter vest in your dad's closet while I'm snooping for the gin?"_

Andy looked lost. So did Nate, until a very Lorelai Gilmore anecdote popped into the foreground. His mother-in-law had recounted a number of amusing, rather inappropriate tales at his grandfather-in-law's wake. The melancholy that fogged the Gilmore house hadn't only sat unwell with her. She just had to shove it off the seat for good measure. She alternated between humorously and solemnly spieling soliloquies, randomly reminiscing at random intervals throughout the day in an effort to eradicate it.

Andy wasn't there. He and Riley were watched by their Grandcappie at his quaint beach house in Amagansett, too young to attend the morbid affair. Richard had died when Andy was a toddler. It was instantaneous but not unexpected.

The boy in question – now a less sweet, more sour sixteen – crossed his arms. "Mom, you lost me at 'panic room'. What do Jodi Foster and the woman from those crappy vampire movies have to do with this?"

 _"Mm, never mind. Another story for another day,"_ laughed Rory.

Andy grimaced. He'd remembered the point he was trying to make. "The fact that you picked a _young_ couple to compare yourselves to should be telling enough of how weird my _half century_ -aged parents are, so – you know – I won't have to."

 _"It's not like we're reduced to sitting on rockers all day, sipping homemade lemonade and knitting tea cosies, wearing matching velour jogging suits,"_ Rory pouted.

Nate sheepishly scratched the back of his head. "We _do_ have those matching pyjama sets."

 _"We didn't go out and get them ourselves, though, did we? Yeah. They were gifts. Doesn't count. Even if we kept them. And wear them. And happen to do so co-ordinated – with surprising frequency, come to think about it."_

Andy was plainly unimpressed.

 _"Oh, I see how it is. Our son would prefer us to re-enact_ The War of the Roses _._

 _"When were you hoping we do this? Because, well, say we're in my old hood at the time. If we're planning on pulling something_ that _drastic in that town – trust me – we'll need to apply for a permit. Our ubiquitous old Dose may have departed, but Kirk – hah – he hasn't just stepped into his shoes – he's developed an abnormal love for permits too, from what Mom tells me."_

"Do you really want us to be like your Aunt Steph and Uncle Colin?" Nate jokingly inquired.

Like father, like son, in the case of the McCraes. The difference was the dramatic divorcing and remarrying of the one woman. Colin and Stephanie were a great couple. They loved each other. A lot. But they also fought. Almost as much.

 _"Because being the unfortunate child of an ugly divorce is an_ appealing _position to find yourself in. Jeez, Andy, you were old enough to remember what happened to the Collinses – Collins, as in surname – not your Uncle Colin. But back to Uncle Colin …_

 _"I doubt you actually want us to go Harvey Keitel and Lorraine Bracco on you. Do you really want to be Mina – shipped off to Switzerland every time Steph and Colin are consulting their lawyers again? And again, and again? Again, again?"_

"I dunno," mumbled Andy, "ugly might be a nice change of pace."

Rory addressed her husband, _"We should really get around to asking them to let us take her in the next time they do that. It's getting ridiculous. Why no one else has thought to intervene thus far is beyond me."_

Andy froze. Something strange( _r_ than normal) had occurred to him. "When was the last time you had a fight?"

 _"Um …"_

"Er …" Nate hadn't a solid thing to say either. A response that was made fun of to this day. There were those who still struggled with the concept that there was more in his skull than weed-addled debris and residual substance fumes.

"Have you guys even had an actual fight?"

Andy was administered silence.

"At all?"

It was eight o'clock in the morning. The building was soundproofed from the twenty-four-seven ruckus outside when it had been erected. They were on the sixty-fifth floor. And, yet, Andy heard crickets. "Ever?" he incredulously cried.

Nate created not a peep. Rory's brow had furrowed at the lens.

"Well, we don't agree on how to handle every Dick dilemma –"

 _"– and we all know there are_ quite _a_ number _of those –"_

"– but those are mostly us as a team versus your grandparents."

 _"Hmm … there was that argument I incurred about our never doing what you asked if we do when your dad and I moved in together. In our twenties. The week he proposed,"_ Rory less than helpfully piped up. _"Wow, that was an eon ago. And, boy, do I feel old. Props to you, kiddo._

 _"And then there was, um … uh, th― no. That would more accurately classify as a heated discussion."_

"Well, then." Andy flailed his arms in resignation. "It's no wonder I'm not on the debate team."

Nate didn't hear his son's redundant comment. _Redundant_ , because the rest of his kids actually _were_ on winning debate teams from schools grade through high. Including Dick, at every prep school he went to. Except for Collegiate. He wasn't there that long – even by _his_ personal standards.

 _"Wait, I got it!"_ Rory cried with _eureka_ triumph. _"The time your father cut off Dick –"_

No possible double entendres there …

"Hey – hey – that was for his own good –"

 _"WITHOUT telling me."_

"A Buckley, Ror."

 _"Just because he was dating –"_

"A half-Baizen, half-Buckley!"

 _"Here you go, all van der Bonkers all over again. Who are you – the Capulets and the Montagues? I like reading Shakespeare, I like watching Shakespeare. I do not like_ living _Shakespeare."_

"The son of a Baizen _and_ a Buckley!"

 _"Baz was a perfectly lovely young man."_

Andy added, "He was the one who pantsed me at Uncle Skip's Inaugural Ball, Mom."

"See? I had every reason to take extreme measures," said Nate victoriously.

 _"Well, he seemed all right when he was involved with Dick."_

"Dick wasn't listening to me …"

Andy had tuned out his parents until he was _literally_ dragged back into whatever "disagreement" they had moved on to.

Seizing the opportunity, Nate's anxious displeasure had reared from its scant dormancy. "When I wasn't happy about you going back to the Middle East? Which I'm still not OK with, by the way."

 _"Nate …"_

"Ror, please. It's dangerous. I miss you." He wrapped his arm around Andy for her to see – an interesting manoeuvre since their _littlest_ son had inherited the late Richard Gilmore's vast height and then some. _"We_ miss you."

Sadness had seeped past Rory's lips. _"I miss you more, honey, but a lot of folks out here are missing people too. Their families, their friends – people who deserve to have their stories told."_

"I know. Just – please – don't do anything risky. Stay safe. Don't be a hero."

 _"I promise to perfectly emulate that cowardly cartoon dog."_

Nate cracked up. Possibly, with tears in his eyes. And exhausted, exasperated tears at that. Their kids were obsessed with classic Cartoon Network and olden Nickelodeon. As crayon-wielding monsters that took a shine to their hand-painted wallpaper, they had driven him and Rory bonkers. Drove them absolutely nuts. He had an odd yearning for his adolescence of Blair and Audrey then. Reliving an endless loop of _Holiday_ and _Tiffany's_ would have been preferable in comparison.

"I'll hold you to that." He looked serious.

 _"I promise to try copying Courage."_

"Make sure to come home soon. The last time I flew out to see you, our detour home ended up taking far longer than professionally advisable."

Mr and Mrs Archibald had set the precedent to never be apart for more than seven days. They extended the allotment to an even two weeks, three at the very most (and that three, only for the most extreme of extreme circumstance), when her brand new career in broadcast journalism started to skyrocket while he had his work cut out for him in Albany. It was a reasonable arrangement. Their professions were unpredictable and they talked tons, no matter what, anyhow. Thank mankind's bastardisation of the planet; for their continuously swelling ranks of cellular towers – a sentiment Riley would be displeased with; and satellites which were outnumbering the stars.

 _"I'm afraid a spontaneous week at the harbour house is just what happens to happen when you have an important quota and a wondrously wonderful wife. That damn Donna Reed's got nothing on me."_

"I love you."

Andy anticipated the lame ick fest that was a hundred percent probable to ensue. He had existed under their roof for sixteen years. Sixteen very long, very traumatising years. Liam claimed that he had it worse in Stars Hollow. Andy didn't believe him. Grams was a flag-waving, card-carrying supporter of PDA, but Gramps's fondness for it fell awfully far in the opposite direction.

Dick, who had lived with the grandparentals in Connecticut for several months to finish the ninth grade, had said it managed to level out. Their "disproportional dysfunction" played a part in that, he had explained. Dick had nonchalantly spewed some other gibberish on top of and below his _"disproportional dysfunction"_ and confused his little brother in the process.

Andy was constantly relegated to feeling like Stephen Amell's Oliver Queen, pre-Lian Yu with no clue. Except Andy's was a household of intellectual doublespeak. His family was a complete encyclopaedia set printed in every language, dauntingly large books disguised as human beings. He was the tallest Archibald but, too often, he was deflated to a dormouse.

 _"I love you too."_

"I love you more."

Andy envied Neil and Dick and Topher and Riley. Nevermore did they frequently have to witness to this open and unapologetic, stomach churning affection.

Rory softly cooed, _"Impossible."_

Gushes from Andy's lungs morphed into disdainful sighs. Dick and Topher were idiots. They moved to neighbouring states. _Neighbouring!_ Neil had the common sense. He bounced around the globe, difficult to pin down. So did Riley. Smart girl.

"I disagree," Nate tenderly countered, sappy as could be.

Despite his less than sound decisions regarding school and work locales, Andy wished that he had Topher's brains. They were all a precocious lot – _except_ Andy – but Topher had ploughed through school the fastest. Neil skipped first grade and Dick had done the same in fifth. Riley did a hop, skip and a jump right over middle school altogether. Topher, an almost entirely separate model of machine, was a different kind of freshman when his contemporaries were just entering high school.

If Andy was more like Topher, then he would be able to leave Mom and Dad's blinding, deafening love nest of dorky obscenity sooner. The preamble to the truly unbearable unpleasantries was approaching its end. The suitable for all ages warm-up was finished. He shuddered. Their lovey-dovey talk was enough of a hardship for someone who had been made by them – _yuck!_ He did not want to think about that right now. Or ever. "We're close to gross again. Nice."

 _"It might actually be a shame that we aren't more like Colin and Stephanie."_ Rory wore a wicked grin.

Nate and Andy's faces had fallen into indistinguishable confusion, matching their indistinguishable and simultaneous replies. "Huh?"

It was adorable, how alike they were.

Undeterred, she continued, " _Because I hear make up sex is supposed to be pretty darn good. All I got was a plain old pile of legal pads, some ball-point pens and a stupid ring. Twenty-five years ago. I feel gypped."_

"Ew, ew, ew!"

"Stupid, huh? Take it up with my great-great-grandfather." Nate's dimples had re-established themselves as he cheekily smiled, "And, yeah. That's the word on the street."

Andy covered his ears. Hurriedly. He whined, "I realise I'm the odd one out and I'm OK with that. I've accepted it. I'm nothing like the rest of the sex-crazed heathens you spawned. But there are innocent, impressionable ears in the same room as you right now, you know!"

"Hm. Maybe I should throw out all the Toraja and Luwak you've been stockpiling since you did that miniseries on forest fires in Indonesia."

"Oh, HELL no!" His hands hadn't done a particularly good job. They then dropped to his sides like lead.

"Then get rid of the Kahlúa … dispose of the Sheridan's …"

 _"Don't you dare, Archibald!"_

"I don't think I can live here with you anymore, Dad. What kind of sicko threatens the coffee?"

 _"I agree, kid, I agree. But, Andy?"_

"Yeah?"

 _"Language,"_ Rory successfully asserted maternal authority all the way from Northern Africa on a Plate screen.

Genuinely shamefaced, Andy apologised, "Sorry, Mom."

* * *

gossipgirl

home | party | pics | links

 **A Peek at Andy Archibald**

 **Current song playing on iPod:** _Just Like Fred and Ginger_ by Just Another Boy Band

 **Current Book on the nightstand:** _Ready Player One_ by Ernest Cline

 **Ideal Vacation Destination:** the South Island of New Zealand

 **Childhood Crush:** Princess Charlotte

 **Favourite Afterschool Activity:** whichever sports are in season

 **Favourite School Subject:** P.E.

 **Favourite Website:** NFL Fantasy Football

 **Favourite Food:** the heavenly lovechild of nachos and tacos, the Naco

 **Favourite Video Game:** Wii Sports

 **Favourite Magazine:** Gray Ink

 **Favourite Reality Show:** _Man v. Food_

 **Cellular Device of Choice:** Google Wrist

 **Dream Job:** "still trying to figure it all out. Maybe a skipper for the New York Yacht Club? That America's Cup is mighty shiny."

« A Peek at Riley Archibald | A Peek at Grace Collins »

* * *

 **Twickham house | Stars Hollow, CT**

 _Rory was trying to read_ Dead Souls _again. Trying. She had reread the same sentence enough to lose count. Her insides churned. Food had started a backpedalling samba up her oesophagus. She snapped her book shut and ran for the nearest bathroom. That's right. A Gilmore girl. Running._

 _Mrs Archibald never had morning sickness. Except for her second pregnancy – where the midnight vomit marathons should have been taken as an indicator for the tribulation to come – she was prone to midday sickness. A shame. Herself, her husband and her four children were in her hometown for the summer. They had brunch at the Dragonfly. Now, Sookie's marvellous cooking was exiting her body in the vilely reverse fashion of its glorious entrance. Unpleasantly. In a stream of sludge and clumps._

 _She returned to the political satire, after thoroughly rinsing her mouth and washing her face, with a woolly mind. She had frustratedly set it down in under a minute. She forfeited her efforts for the afternoon. Her line of thought was exhaustingly outracing itself and had overshot the tracks. She couldn't concentrate. The queasiness lingered._

 _Rory hadn't been this unbearably scatterbrained in a year. Not since finding out about peanut number four. In actual fact, peanut number seven. But she tried not to dwell on that. Dwelling on_ that _inevitably led to a hole, deep and dangerous, with no surface below and no visibility above._

 _She wondered whether there was anything wrong with her ovaries to make them this overzealous. Was her uterus really that great a place to hang out in for nine months? She contemplated the likelihood of exposure to radioactive matter and Nate's rather fit soldiers downstairs. They were suspiciously supercharged. And not in the realm of talented at following orders. Or know the meaning of a strategic retreat._

 _This had reached ridiculous proportions. She had tried every legitimate brand of contraceptive pill on the market and become extremely stringent about its application. Nate used condoms and occasionally double-bagged it as an extra precaution. This should not – this could not have happened._

 _She loved her life. She loved her family. She loved her kids. But_ five _children? Five children, all under the age of ten? One of those children was Dick: the boy who demanded vigilant supervision to keep from causing mayhem! Despite his unparalleled laziness, her second son was a born troublemaker. Emily, Richard and Francine were concerned because he had given them vivid Lorelai and Christopher flashbacks. The notorious twosome, themselves, had advised their daughter and son-in-law not to give him a Porsche for his sixteenth birthday. Personally, Rory had crossed her fingers for no teenage pregnancies._

 _Rory grabbed a plush cushion beside her. She then sighed, half-relieved. Nothing irreplaceable had been thrown out. It was navy and velvet and, odds were, made to order from Holland & Sherry. It wasn't the style of either grandmothers. She sighed again. Anne needed a hobby that was not the ongoing redecoration competition with Grandma and Francine they had going on. The idle-handed Spinster Club needed to be broken up._

 _Her grandmothers and Nate's mom didn't dare touch the Spectacle. They knew better than to incur the wrath of Blair Waldorf-Bass. It was she who had somehow snatched furnishing rights by the move in date. Conversely, there was the Greenhaven Surprise of 2020, when the Rye house had been richly redecorated in deep reds and chocolate browns while the Archibalds were summering on the Turquoise Coast. And, of course, who could forget their latest visit to bungalow in Mahopac? Rory sure hadn't. All their furniture there had been discarded and replaced without notice. She had yet to pick up her mother's sixth sense Emily-alert, but she swore there were vestiges of Chanel No. 5 clouded by the lakeside air._

 _She had flopped into a lying position on the sofa. She buried her face in the velvety throw pillow, eyes clamped. This was the last straw. Rory wasn't unhappy with the prospect of a fifth child, but nor was she keen to convert her vagina into a free-for-all waterslide. Her grandfather-in-law's estate bombings whenever another one dropped had lost its novelty. Who cared if she and Nate now practically owned Staten Island and Philadelphia's Lower Merion Township? She didn't like living as a breeding mule. She didn't like being forced on maternity leave. And she certainly did NOT like going through caffeine withdrawal._

 _Rory and Nate wanted one, maybe two in addition to Neil because they were only children. Well, he was. She was raised like one, though. Gigi came into the picture when she was finishing high school and her father had an inconsistent, almost insignificant presence. Liam hadn't arrived until she was twenty-seven._ Cheaper by the Dozen _wasn't precisely what either had in mind. They were barely halfway there and they already had their Sarah Baker in the lovable terror, Dick Archibald, by the second round._

 _Her exasperation was replaced by guilt when she thought about Dan and Serena._

 _Dan Humphrey and Serena, then, van der Woodsen had been informed that she was unable to conceive. The insight was instigated by a bewildering hysterical pregnancy. Serena hadn't known that she wanted a baby so much. She supposed that perhaps she enjoyed minding Henry heaps more than she suspected. Her barren and inhospitable reproductive organs were the reason why it had taken them so long to say "I do." She was a Charlotte who would never get her Rose. New York's It Girl had a bit of a breakdown._

 _A genuine stint in the Pedowitz Institute and plenty of intensive therapy later, surfacing issues were sorted. They refused to let biology prevent them from extending the Humphrey household like William van der Bilt was overjoyed that his own esteemed dynasty had. Thereupon finally tying the knot, the newlyweds extensively travelled the world and became the New Brangelina of the Upper East Side._

 _Rory had no envy for Serena's cruel child-bearing abilities. Neither was she especially pleased that she would have to push a very large thing out of a very tiny hole for a fifth time. Mila Kunis was correct. Jimmy Kimmel had learnt his lesson. Men did not have the right to say that "'We' are pregnant."_

 _It was Nate's turn on the operating table. Rory would withhold sex if he disagreed. She had lightly suggested elective surgery after Topher. She had seriously broached the subject with news that Riley was on the way. Unpremeditated false positives weren't uncommon under their roof. There was the dark period before their daughter that had involved a mass shooting and a miscarriage. Of fraternal triplets. Male, each of them. Her husband's testicular troops seemed to pride in proving their virility. Suspicion had arisen due to his dream of an all-Archibald touch football team. Questioning had quelled when he adorably hoped for girls so that they could dress as the von Trapp family and Maria for Halloween._

 _Further proliferation was "highly unlikely" as a result of the unspeakable tragedy. The often employed OB/GYN clearly hadn't anticipated the fertile prowess of Mayor and Mrs Archibald. Gilmore women got knocked up far too easily. Case in point: Rory's own conception as well as those of her kids. None were planned. There was an understandable; Sookie and Jackson-inspired; not at all pretentious rationale behind loading their children with multiple middle names._

 _The third Lorelai mentally noted to ensure that the fourth was in the dark about dating until hitting forty. She had begun to empathise with Grandma and Grandpa's motives for the reverend sex-talk shanghai. Maybe even Mom's priest-rabbi-Mormon missionary triple-team. The genetic experiment that Rory had wedded should have been snipped in the fall of twenty-four. It was time for Nathaniel Fitzwilliam Archibald to accept the inevitability of a vasectomy._


	6. The Grandfather: Part III

**The Grandfather: Part III**

Notes: Short. Very short. I know.

* * *

Rory was reading an article in _Th_ _e New York Times_.

"Um … WHAT?"

She nearly spat out her coffee when she saw her name mentioned in one particular article: _Which Democrats could challenge Donald Trump in 2020 presidential election?_

Nate sprinted into the kitchen, toothbrush still in his mouth and concern on his unshaven face. "Ror! Hey! What's wrong?"

"Honey, please get William on the phone. NOW." Rory began muttering under her breath, "What about 'I don't want to be in politics' are people unable to understand? I just want to _write_ about politics, dammit!"


	7. Set This Dance Alight

**Set This Dance Alight**

 _AKA_ _Friday Night's STILL Alright for Fighting._

* * *

RORY: You could have said something!

ISLA: But you didn't.

LORELAI: You should have said something!

EMILY: But you didn't.

RORY: No discussion. No nothing. No anything. And you just walked her off to Planned Parenthood.

TYLER: There was no me walking her, because she walked herself. There was no nothing, because I didn't know anything at the time. There was no discussion, because she didn't even tell me until after the fact. Besides, I think we're all missing the most important point, here. Despite my personal feelings on the matter – and all of yours, apparently – it was _her_ choice.

* * *

NATE: Rory, you said – you _told_ me you didn't know who the father was.

RORY: Because I didn't! Conclusively.

NATE: You lied to me.

RORY: By omission.

NATE: Rory, we don't do that. We don't lie. We do _not_ lie. Not to _each other_. I can't believe … all these years … and about _him_? Really?

RORY: I'm sorry. You weren't supposed to –

NATE: Find out? Yeah, I got that.

RORY: We weren't supposed to – nobody was supposed to – I didn't want to know. OK? Nobody was supposed to know. Nobody.

NATE: Not even the father?

RORY: Please stop calling him that.

NATE: Why not? It's the truth.

RORY: _You_ are Tyler's dad. _Not_ him.

* * *

LORELAI: You were barely eighteen!

LIAM: I was in college!

LORELAI: Exactly! You were in college! You know what dumb eighteen-year-old kids are supposed to do in college? Dumb eighteen-year-old college kid things, that's what! Not dumb adult things. Dumb _kid_ things!

LIAM: I dunno, Mom. I dunno if marrying the girl I love would classify as a dumb thing, period.

LORELAI: A dumb thing, yes. But a dumb adult thing. _Adult_. Something which you were not. Something which you are still not.

LIAM: So, what? I love a girl and I never marry her?

LORELAI: No, you don't not marry her. You wait to marry her. You wait –

LIAM: How long do I wait? Because I'd like to actually be married before I accidentally knock her up –

LORELAI: HEY!

LIAM: I'm a Gilmore, aren't I? It's practically our rite of passage.

LORELAI: _Too far_ , kid.

* * *

LORELAI: And you became everything that I ran away from anyway!

RORY: I'd hardly call having two incredible children, and a loving husband, _and_ a successful career ruining my life, Mom.

* * *

RORY: I don't want to quit the DAR.

EMILY: Well, too late.

RORY: I was accepted and certified. Twice, now. The first time by you, the second time by Anne. You can't just kick me out.

EMILY: I can, too.

RORY: Grandma, you're not even actively involved with the DAR anymore.

EMILY: So?

RORY: You don't even _like_ the DAR anymore.

EMILY: That is my organisation.

RORY: And even if you were, even if you did, I've been with the New York chapter for years. _Your organisation_ , as you so benevolently put it, is the _Hartford_ chapter.

EMILY: I still cannot believe you left us for those priggish twigs!

RORY: I'm sorry, but I'm not quitting.

EMILY: You are _not_ sorry, and you _are_ quitting!

* * *

RORY: [seething]

ISLA: [smiling]

* * *

LORELAI: We were sixteen! We didn't want to get married!

EMILY: A child needs a mother _and_ a father!

LORELAI: And I _am_ married now. To Luke!

EMILY: Oh, yes. After spending a decade as glorified roommates!

LORELAI: OH – MY –

EMILY: And having _another_ child out of wedlock!

LORELAI: – GOD.

* * *

LUKE: Uh …

EMILY: Richard has probably been rolling in his grave since Lorelai outbid Katy Perry!

LUKE: Ah …

EMILY: All he wanted was for you to franchise your diner!

LUKE: Er …

EMILY: And he left you the money to do it!

LUKE: Well –

EMILY: Was that really too much to ask?

LUKE: I –

EMILY: Was it really that terrible of a last request?

LUKE: But –

EMILY: Well, apparently, it _was_!

LUKE: Sorry.

EMILY: [her turn to be lost for words]

EVERYONE ELSE: [stunned]

ISLA: Huh. So _that's_ how you win.

* * *

(MOSTLY) EVERYONE: [exhausted]

ISLA: [still smiling]

LUKE: [still not used to this shit]


	8. What's Past Is Prologue

**What's Past Is Prologue**

Notes: I haven't fleshed this one out enough for the idea to actually come across as such, but I envisioned Rory and Logan having this whole Richard/Pennilyn friendship over the years – just with some cheating, since, you know, apparently that is Rory's pattern now.

* * *

As had become tradition for these seasonal lunches of theirs, Rory lead with, "So …"

Logan grinned nostalgically, also saying, "So …" just like he always did.

"How's …?"

 _Odette_.

"Good. She's good. How's …?"

 _Archibald_.

"He's good, too."

"Good. That's good. How're …?"

 _The kids_.

"They're great."

"That's great. I'm glad."

"How are you?"

"Fine. And you?"

"I –" Rory couldn't bring herself to lie to him. "I've been better."

Logan immediately opened his mouth to reply, but then he just as quickly closed it.

"What?" asked Rory.

"You look good."

"Flatterer."

"Glowing."

"Thank … uh … _oh_ …"

* * *

"Are you really gonna marry Odette?"

 _That's the dynastic plan._

"Are you ever gonna leave Archibald?"

 _Not a chance._

* * *

Rory sighed, content and a bit tired, as she watched the little girls metres in front of her feed the swans that were cautiously flocking to them. The little girls were happily twirling through the air and tossing torn bits of bread in every direction.

"I've gotta say, Ace, that is _quite_ a dress."

Rory's hand automatically moved down to her large, round belly. "Logan?"

"Let me guess …" he grinned, "it's a girl."

"If she knows what's good for her." She nodded. "I don't know what I'll do if it's a little boy. Little girls, I know, but little boys? I know nothing about little boys."

"I think you'd be able to handle him – _if_ little him turns out to be a him, that is."

"Nice to know you have faith in me."

"Hey, now, you've practically mothered the Lost Boys."

Rory smiled, shaking her head. Colin and Finn. And, occasionally, Robert. Logan wasn't entirely wrong.

"You'll do just fine, Ace. More than fine. You'll do great."

* * *

LOGAN: Your son.

RORY: Which one?

LOGAN: The blond one.

RORY: The _blond_ one.

LOGAN: He's very …

RORY: Blond?

LOGAN: Yes, blond. Blond, Rory. _Blond_.

RORY: Just like his grandmother.

LOGAN: Emily's not bl―

RORY: Anne.

LOGAN: Right.

RORY: He's not yours.

LOGAN: Right.

RORY: There was a brief window where I was worried he might be … you know …

LOGAN: Right.

RORY: But he wasn't. Don't worry about it.

LOGAN: You could have told me.

RORY: There wasn't anything to tell.

LOGAN: You should have told me. When you thought – when there was the possibility –

RORY: But he's not. What's past is past, Logan.

LOGAN: I thought what's past is supposed to be prologue.

RORY: Hah … Let's hope not.

* * *

WARD: Mom?

RORY: [sees his all-too-serious face and smiles] Yes, Edward?

WARD: I got a girl pregnant.

* * *

LOGAN: Um, hello?

TORY: Hi. You must be Eyre's 'miserable old man.' Nice to meet you. I'm Tory.

EYRE: [facepalm] …

* * *

EYRE: Urgh. I hate these kinds of parties.

TORY: What kind of party?

EYRE: You know, the stupid kind. The kind where everybody is either stupid, or a liar. Or a stupid liar.

TORY: You're funny.

EYRE: I feel like they're secretly taping _The Real Housewives_ with hidden cameras in here.

TORY: Let's do something funner.

EYRE: 'Funner' isn't a real word, Gilmore.

TORY: Oh, boy, do we have work to do.

EYRE: 'We?'

TORY: Lighten up, England. The _real_ party hasn't started yet – the proper kind of party they're not allowed to tape, let alone broadcast.

* * *

TORY: [singing] _Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens …_

EYRE: Um …

TORY: _Bright copper kettles and warm woollen mittens …_

EYRE: Tory?

TORY: _Brown paper packages tied up with strings …_

EYRE: Um, Tory?

TORY: _These are a few of my favourite things …_

EYRE: What're you doing?

TORY: I heard good ol' Mitch was gonna be at this hoppin' little hoopla.

EYRE: You're evil.

HUNTER: [sidles up to them from behind] You say 'evil,' I say _ingenious_.

TORY: I always knew you were my favourite Huntzberger, Hunter Talmadge.

EYRE: Oh, great. Bloody brilliant. This ponce.

HUNTER: [terrible English accent] Aw, there he goes again, being all British.

TORY: [equally as atrocious English accent] How adorable.

* * *

"My parents are, like, the perfect couple. It's nauseating, but I want that. I want to find that person who's gonna help _me_ make _other_ people nauseas."

―Tory Gilmore-Archibald

* * *

EYRE: I've never –

TORY: What? Had sex?

EYRE: That, too.

TORY: Well, then …

[TORY kisses EYRE without warning]

EYRE: Wha―

TORY: I just thought you should know what it would be like. [kisses him again, more passionately] Do you want me to stop? [rests her head against his as she removes her sweater] Eyre, do you want me to stop?

[EYRE pulls TORY towards him and kisses her]

* * *

TORY: Come with me.

EYRE: I can't do that.


End file.
